


Stray

by Jadells



Category: Ranma 1/2
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Child Neglect, Childhood Trauma, Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other, Parent-Child Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-14 01:13:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14759772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadells/pseuds/Jadells
Summary: A neighbourhood tom stops by for a visit.





	Stray

**Stray**

 

* * *

* * *

 

An old woman sat out on the engawa, watching the cherry blossom petals flicker through the warm spring air like snow. Her laundry was drying on the clothesline nearby, fluttering with the blossoms. There was a distant sound of birdsong, although it might have been closer, she couldn’t much tell these days. Her hearing had been growing more and more faint over the years. She was sure it was only a matter of time before she went completely deaf. She sighed softly as she shuffled her legs. It wasn’t good for her knees to sit in this position for so long, but she didn’t have the heart to move.

 

A stray cat lay in her lap, purring gently as the old woman slowly moved her weathered hand down its back. She could feel every vertebrae in the poor thing’s small spine, and it was covered in a layer of dirt that would have driven any of her neighbours to drive the creature off with a broom. Perhaps if she’d been a little younger, a little more selfish, she’d have done the same. But in her old age she’d developed a fondness for the outcasts; she now felt like one of them. Perhaps when she departed this life, she’d come back as one of the neighbourhood toms. And she’d eat all of Yamada-san’s lovely turnips and leave a couple dead mice at her doorstep, for good measure. 

 

She was pulled from her silly reverie as she noticed suddenly that the purring had stopped. 

 

The old woman looked down. The stray stretched, yawned, then pushed themselves upright and blinked up at her with bleary eyes. 

 

Then the eyes shot open and the stray let out a cry, and scampered backward. 

 

“Aaah, I’m sorry, obasan! I did it again, didn’t I? I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” 

 

Obasan smiled softly. The stray cat had vanished and a small child had taken its place, just like always. The child had black hair so long the old woman had mistaken him for a girl the first time he’d leapt over the fence into her backyard. He was always wearing a gi that looked to be a few sizes too big, making him look even more diminutive than he truly was. And he was always covered in thin, long scratches that ranged from pink to angry red. Sometimes he even showed up with ones that were still bleeding. 

 

Today was no different. The small child was caked in a layer of dirt, his white gi looking more dingy gray, and every exposed part of his skin was coated with red scratches. He looked up from his excessive apologetic bowing to give the old woman a quizzical look as she chuckled warmly at his antics. There was a rather nasty scratch just below his left eye that looked like it was caked with dried blood. 

 

Obasan slowly got to her feet with a grunt of exertion, grateful to finally move her legs. The stray had slept for quite a while this time around. Based on the severity of the child’s wounds, it made sense that it took so long today. The boy was watching her with a wide, wary expression, and she saw his throat bob nervously. 

 

“You’re a mess, child,” Obasan said, walking over to the boy and offered her hand, “Perhaps now you’ll finally take to a bath, hm?” 

 

The boy stared at her for another moment, then reached out tentatively and took the old woman’s hand, and rose to his feet. Hand in hand the two of them walked to the bathroom. 

 

“I tried to give you a bath one of the first times you came to visit me,” she said as they walked. “Unfortunately I wasn’t aware you were going to take so badly to being put in the water. You shredded up one of my good towels.” 

 

They walked into the bathroom. It was small, with a wooden ofuro tucked away in the corner of the room. 

 

The boy had flushed deeply with shame. “I’m sorry, obasan,” he mumbled meekly. 

 

“Don’t worry about that now, dear. Let’s focus on getting you all cleaned up.” The old woman opened the furo, and steam billowed into the air like she’d opened a rice cooker. She turned around to see that the boy was hovering awkwardly by the doorway, scrunching the belt on his gi between his hands nervously. 

 

“Shall I wash your back for you?” Obasan offered.

 

The boy continued to play with his belt, his ears still burning red. After a moment he nodded shyly. “Okay.” 

 

The old woman sat the boy down on the bath stool after the boy had undressed (he’d asked her very politely but nervously to turn around while he did so) and then began to fill a nearby bath bucket with lukewarm water. She rolled up her sleeves while she waited for the bucket to fill, and then she brought the bucket over to where the boy waited on the stool, his back to her. 

 

“May I take out your hair?” she asked him softly, running her wrinkled fingers through the little ponytail the child wore his hair in. 

 

The boy nodded silently. The old woman removed the tie from his hair, realizing only then that it was an old piece of string that had been holding his hair back. She set the string aside and then picked up the bath bucket. 

“Here it comes,” she warned, then turned the bucket over the boy’s head. Water splashed about, splattering onto the floor and soaking the boy’s hair. The old woman could already see the top layer of grime running down the boy’s arms like old grease. She picked up a nearby bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap. It appeared she had her work cut out for her. 

 

It was like bathing her own children, or grandchildren, all of which who were old enough to wash themselves now. It would have been nostalgic, if not for the ludicrous amount of grime and blood involved. 

 

“Sorry, this must sting,” the woman said as she rubbed the bar of soap down the boy’s arms, which were some of the most badly-scratched areas. “I’m trying to be gentle.”

 

The boy shrugged. “It doesn’t hurt.”

 

“No need to be so brave around me, dear.” 

 

She finished her scrub down, then washed the boy’s hair. Then she filled the bath bucket again to rinse. Soap suds—which should have been fluffy white but were tinged brownish-gray, and even little wisps of pinkish red from the boy’s deepest cuts—ran in rivulets down the boy’s skin and onto the tile floor. She filled the bucket again for good measure and turned it over once more, then instructed the boy to get into the bath. The boy did so as she fetched a fluffy bath towel and a washcloth from nearby. She folded the towel and set it aside, then dunked the washcloth into the bath water as the boy stepped in gingerly. 

 

When the child had adjusted to the hot water and sunk down, Obasan took out the washcloth and gave it a twist. The boy watched curiously as the washcloth’s excess water splattered back into the bath, then looked up at the old woman. 

 

“How’s the water? Not too hot?” she asked.

 

“It’s nice,” the boy replied. “It’s like bein’ at the bath house.”

 

The old woman chuckled. “Do you go there often?”

 

“Only when chichi can afford it,” the boy said with a small shrug. “Which isn’t a lot. Usually I take baths in rivers or we fill a big barrel and heat it up ourselves.” 

 

“I see. Does he wash your back for you? Or heat the barrel?” 

 

“He did when I was little, but not anymore. Says I can wash my own back and heat my own baths,” the boy said. 

 

“How old are you, my dear?” 

 

“I’m ten.”

 

Obasan hummed thoughtfully. She took his small chin in her weathered hand and he blinked at her curiously. “Scoot a little closer, and we’ll wash your face.” 

 

The boy did as he was told, and Obasan carefully rubbed the washcloth on the boy’s face, rubbing away the remnants of grime that were missed during her initial scrub down. She took extra care around the scratches, especially around the one under the boy’s left eye. Again the boy did not complain, or even so much as wince as the cloth rubbed at his cuts. 

 

“You can soak for as long as you like, but we will need to disinfect and bandage those cuts of yours,” the old woman said as she got to her feet. “But no rush, I’m going to wash your gi for you so just relax and I’ll call you when your clothes are dry.” 

 

“Thank you, obasan.” 

 

“You’re very welcome, dear. You had quite a long nap already, but don’t fall asleep in the tub. I’ll be close by, holler if you need me. Yell loud, I’m a bit hard of hearing.” 

 

She left the boy to enjoy his soak, and walked down the small hallway and opened the closet doors that housed the washer and dryer, stacked on one another. She threw the battered, dirty gi into the wash, along with the washcloth she’d used to clean the boy’s face (it had gotten significantly less white in the process). Then she padded back down the hallway and into the kitchen. She filled the kettle with water and placed it on the stove, then puttered around the kitchen preparing some food. Halfway through, she went back down the hall and put the washed clothes into the dryer. Back in the kitchen, she finished preparing lunch and brought everything out to the living room and set two spots on the kotatsu. She went back down the hallway and took the now dry, clean clothes from the dryer, and went back to the ofuro. 

 

Obasan tapped gently on the door. “Your clothes are dry now. I’ll leave them by the door for you. I’ll be in the living room when you’re ready.” 

 

“Okay!” the boy called loudly through the door.

 

Obasan went and gathered a couple of things before going to wait at the kotatsu, sipping on a cup of tea. After a few minutes the boy entered the room, dressed in his gi which was practically reflecting light, it was so white. His black hair was still loose and damp, the wet ends just past his shoulders.  

 

“Come and sit, I made us some lunch,” Obasan said, patting the tatami mat welcomingly. 

 

The boy came in and took a seat, staring in awe at the food in front of him. It was a rather simple meal; a bowl of fluffy white rice with a pickled plum placed on top, some miso soup, tonkatsu, and a side of pickles. 

 

Obasan poured tea for the boy and placed it by him. “It’s all I could do on such short notice, but—“

 

“This looks  _ great _ !” the boy cried excitedly, his eyes lighting up. “Thank you, obasan! Itadakimasu!” 

 

The old woman smiled warmly as the boy grabbed his chopsticks and started scarfing down his rice with fervour, pausing only to add pickles or pieces of tonkatsu to his bite. She began on her own food, watching from the corner of her eyes as the boy began to slow down. He was still chewing eagerly, but seemed to be relishing each bite. He put down his bowl of rice, which was already half-empty, taking a gulp of his miso soup and then washing it down with tea. He chopped his strips of tonkatsu into smaller portions, dropping the smaller pieces into his rice bowl with a few pickles before picking up his bowl again. Obasan hid her smile from behind her teacup. The two finished their meals in silence.

 

Once they’d finished eating, Obasan grabbed the things she’d gathered from her room from earlier and set them out on the table. There was a hair dryer, brush, hair tie, and a first-aid kit. 

 

“I was thinking I could do your hair for you, and then we can see about getting those cuts looked after,” she said. 

 

The boy pinched a piece of his loose hair between his fingers unconsciously. “My hair?” he asked. 

 

“Yes, if that’s alright with you.” 

 

“That sounds okay.” 

 

“Good. Then I’ll plug this into the wall over there and you can sit in front of me.” 

 

The two got set up and Obasan went about drying out the child’s damp hair. How such a small head could have so much thick hair, she didn’t know. She was starting to feel quite envious, remembering her own long, ebony locks from her youth. Her hair nowadays looked more like a bird had crafted a nest with moth balls, dust bunnies and cat hair and plopped it gracelessly atop of her head. She turned off the hair dryer, then gathered the brush and hair tie. 

 

“I was thinking we could style it a little differently then how you usually wear it,” she said as she gently brushed out tangles. “You don’t have to keep it that way if you don’t like it. I won’t be offended.”

 

Obasan peeked around the boy’s head when she didn’t get a verbal response. The boy’s eyes were closed, his features so relaxed he almost looked like he could be sleeping. She remembered when her mother did her hair for her, many years ago. She always made sure to brush it so gently, and when she ran her fingers through her smooth hair from the scalp to the ends, it felt like heaven. She could almost feel the tingles travelling up her arms and stippling at the back of her head, even now. She smiled to herself at the memory.

 

“You’ve got such lovely hair, you ought to have a little fun with it now and then, don’t you think?” she went on, as her fingers got to work putting the hair into separate strands. 

 

The boy’s hair was long, but not quite long enough for her to be able to achieve the look she was going for. She did the best she could with what she had, however, pulling the three small strands of hair into a stubby, but cute, braid. 

 

“There, all done,” she announced. “How’s that feel? Not too tight?”

 

The boy reached his hand up and felt the back of his neck, rolling the short braid around in his fingers. “It feels good. Less heavy.”

 

“That’s good. Now, I wanted to have a look at those scratches. Hm, perhaps I shouldn’t have left this until last, after you’ve had a nice relaxing bath and all…” The old woman clicked her tongue at her own thoughtlessness. “But I’d hate to leave them. Wouldn’t want to risk them getting infected.” 

 

She pulled over the first aid kit. It contained a small bottle of alcohol and cotton pads. She doused a cotton pad in the alcohol and dabbed at all the scratches. Again, the boy sat still and patiently while she worked, not making a sound of protest or pulling a face. Soon enough, she’d gotten all the wounds disinfected and bandaged. She placed a final bandaid across the long scratch under the boy’s eye. 

 

“There! You’re all done.” She poked him on the tip of nose, and the boy giggled. The sound warmed the old woman’s heart. Any child’s laughter was precious, but it felt extra special to her to hear this boy genuinely laugh, or to see his face light up with a smile at the sight of warm food and soften in calm as he had his hair brushed and sank into a hot bath. 

 

This child deserved all of these simple comforts, which seemed to be far more than what he was receiving.

 

“RANMA!” 

 

The boy jumped out of his skin, and the smile dropped from his face. Obasan looked out across her garden, seeing a middle-aged man standing just behind her fence. He wore a light blue bandana around his head, hiding what would have been a deeply receding hairline. He had round glasses, a broad frame, and a tattered gi tied off with a black belt. He was no stranger; much like the boy, Obasan had seen this man many times before. 

 

The stray was no stray, after all. And his owner had found him. 

 

“Hello, Genma,” she greeted. “Ranma-kun was just stopping by to visit me again. I’m sorry, you just missed lunch.” 

 

“So, you’re mooching food now, boy?” Genma scoffed. “Is that any way to thank this woman after trespassing on her property time and time again?” 

 

“...Better n’  _ stealin’  _ it,” Ranma mumbled, so low Obasan could hardly hear it. 

 

“ _ What _ was that, boy?” Genma snapped. “I clearly haven’t taught you enough manners. Taking advantage of old women and back-talking your own father. You ought to be ashamed.”

 

Ranma’s head hung low, and his hands twisted at his belt again. 

 

Genma scrunched up his nose, then looked over at Obasan, finally addressing her. “You’ll have to excuse my son, ma’am. He’s got no respect for his elders,” he said.

 

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all. I’ve actually found him to be quite nice company,” Obasan said sweetly, patting Ranma’s knee gently. She saw the child’s shoulders droop slightly, the tension slowly leaving him at her touch. 

 

“Ranma. Let’s go, boy. Hurry up,” Genma ordered scathingly, looking like he hadn’t heard a word the old woman had said. 

 

Ranma slowly got to his feet. Obasan quickly grasped his hand, and the boy looked down; his eyes which had just moments before been shining were now swimming with confusion and fear. 

 

The old woman smiled softly. “Come back and see me soon, Ranma-kun.” 

 

Ranma’s lips pressed together and for the first time she finally saw pain cross his face, and then he nodded stiffly. “Thank you again, obasan.”

 

“Ranma,” Genma said shortly. “We have training to do, boy.”

 

With the boy’s hand still in her grip, she felt the child shiver. Then he pulled his hand out of her grasp, bowed quickly, then jumped down from the engages and across the garden, jumping over the small fence. Genma took Ranma by the arm, and walked off without a glance in the old woman’s direction. She could hear the boy’s father speak as they walked down the street.

 

“What in the hell did you do to you hair? It makes you look like a  _ girl _ .”

 

For her to have heard it meant he must have been talking  _ very _ loud. 

 

Obasan sighed. She stood up and walked out to the engawa, watching the boy walk down the street with his father until they were far out of sight. She sat down, going back to watching the cherry blossoms flicker through the air. 

 

And waited for her stray to come visit her again. 

* * *

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was a little idea I had while re-reading the Nekoken chapter in the manga. I had always wondered, "I wonder whatever happened to the old woman?".  
> I mean, in the anime she's dead but I based this off the manga (Ranma is ten instead of six here, which is the age used in the manga). I figured that Ranma must have really been close to her and trusted her, if she was the only person he knew at the time who could calm him down from his Nekoken state.  
> This lady was on the same level of trust as Akane, long before Akane was in the picture. That says something about their relationship, and I wanted to explore it. I also just really love delving into Ranma's childhood, which is heavily shrouded in mystery as far as the manga and anime are concerned. That makes it's excellent fanfic fodder!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading. 
> 
> Jadells
> 
> (A big thanks to inklesspen for being a beta for this bittersweet li'l fic)
> 
> \--
> 
> A note to fans of The Autumn Effect:
> 
> I have officially begun work on the first installment in The Autumn Effect's sequel, "Summer Solstice"! It will likely be a while yet before it sees the light of day. I think I want to try having each installment completely finished before posting it on AO3, so that I can do so on a set schedule, like a chapter every Saturday or something. But I still wanted to let y'all know that I'm not dead, and I haven't forgotten about my promise to give you the rest of the story, that picks up where The Autumn Effect left off. 
> 
> Stay tuned, babies.


End file.
